Marcus has no friends"

"John, what is friendship to you?

" "Oh, one too many," John thought. In high school, before they drank themselves into oblivion, they would have drunken conversations about serious, existential matters. Marcus would often confide in John, his voice breaking, about his romantic failures or problems at home. Often, these were matters too personal for John to listen to. But then they would both burst into wild laughter and fall asleep on the living room carpet, the memory of those conversations fading away as the whiskey steamed off their skin. Regardless, upon waking, they both felt better mentally, their only complaint being a terrible hangover. And so it was twice a month, when John's parents spent weekends in the country.

Today, both nearing forty, they sat on the porch of Marcus's single-family home. John in a deep, soft armchair, Marcus, paralyzed from the waist down, in a wheelchair. They were separated by a table, a bottle of whiskey, glasses, and a game of checkers underway. There was no ashtray; they simply threw the ashtrays, which would have accumulated in large quantities since the afternoon, into the grass.

"What we're doing now is friendship. Look, we're sitting together over a glass, playing checkers like little kids. We trust each other like no one else. And then there's the fact that I didn't tell on my old lady like you used to puke on her carpet every three weeks."

They burst out laughing.

"I've always had a clear criterion for choosing friends," Marcus replied. "Low on the level of scum, high on the level of humor."

They snorted again. Marcus pushed the board aside and filled their glasses. He became serious in an instant and continued:

"You're the only guy who's never once disappointed me on any of those criteria.

" "Come on... You've got me.

" "Exactly, John. I've got you." It's wonderful that there's someone who'll pat you on the back when everyone else has their asses stuck in their boots. You understand me perfectly; I've often felt like you were reading my mind. But you'll never understand what it's like to murder your own wife.

John sighed.

"I told you not to look at it that way..."

The conversation turned to a topic John had long considered exhausted. Less than six months ago, on their fifteenth wedding anniversary, John and his wife had gone on a road trip across the United States. Two days before returning to Cleveland, Emma fell ill. She was consumed by a mercilessly high fever, and Marcus had stayed up all night with her in a dingy hotel in the middle of nowhere. The next night, Emma probably didn't even feel their Ford crash into a tree. Marcus had fallen asleep at the wheel forty miles from home. Emma's parents had cut off contact with Marcus, blaming him for his wife's death. Only occasionally did Marcus's daughters go to visit their grandparents; they lived on the other side of town.

"A terrible experience..." John thought, and he felt genuine sympathy for Marcus.

"Tell me," Marcus continued, "how is it that you've lived alone for fifteen years and haven't become a bit of a selfish jerk?"

John smiled wryly.

"If you'd spent those fifteen years buying food just for yourself, had no one to argue with about the remote, and washed the dishes only once every three days, you'd also feel the urge to make the world a better place."

They downed more glasses. Marcus looked deep into John's eyes.

"I owe you a huge debt," he said. "You've become a close friend to the girls over the month I was in the hospital. You're the best at keeping spirits up, seriously. I wouldn't be able to refuse you if you asked me for something. Anything. It

was mid-August, and by this time of night it was getting chilly. Cool and dark; the "bright" June nights were already a memory. John threw his sweatshirt over his shoulders. "Way too much alcohol for such a quiet and intimate evening," he thought. "Alcohol and tobacco."

"One last crazy party between two drunks?" he asked Marcus, who, with a wicked smile, was digging the last cigarette out of his pack.

"Sure." Marcus put the cigarette in his mouth and, with his eyes blearily, wandered around the table, searching for a lighter. John pulled his own out of his pocket. "But before I beat you up for the last time, bring me some socks from upstairs, okay? It's chilly from that damn lake...

" "Mhm..." John muttered, and only now, as he pushed himself away from the armchair, did he realize he'd had a bit too much. He leaned his hand on the table, the other rubbing his stubbled face.

"These woolen ones should be in the second drawer from the top!" Marcus shouted as John disappeared into the house.

Since Marcus sold his downtown Cleveland apartment two months ago and bought a small house in the suburbs, John had visited him twice. "So where was Marcus's damn room?" he wondered aloud as he climbed the final steps to the second floor. He leaned breathlessly against the wall and swallowed. "Okay, this was the bathroom and the toilet." He glanced at the two doors on the left side of the hallway. There were three on the right, and after a few faltering steps, he decided to open the first one he passed.

"Second drawer from the top..." he muttered, sniffing, and tried the doorknob. The door slowly opened; after a moment, 14-year-old Kate and 12-year-old Sara flinched as the door came to a stop against the wardrobe with a soft thud. The younger was making the bed, the older sat at the desk to John's left. Now they were both staring expectantly at John, who had leaned against the doorknob and assumed a crooked position.

"Good evening, beautiful... bye-bye," John smiled, but suddenly felt a disturbing wave of nausea sweep over his stomach. His sense of balance was highly unstable: the girls' faces, the desk, the lamp, and that colorful carpet swirled around him, all of them even more provoking him to throw up. But what disturbed him more was his feeling of interest in the girls. In the worst, most perfidious way he could feel about his friend's daughters. He stared at them, the adolescent girls bathed in bright pajamas, and felt an increasingly morbid desire creeping over him...

John hadn't had many women since he finished college. He often told his friends, who met him every six months and asked if he'd found a suitable woman yet, that he was too complicated for a long-term relationship, and that being single meant he enjoyed life more. But he was too lazy for that. His cramped apartment in downtown Cleveland and regular sex with the cashier at the supermarket across the street were enough for him. A mutually satisfying arrangement with no strings attached.

Today he wasn't himself. He'd been living with the girls for a month, but until now he hadn't felt anything like this. He hadn't been drunk around them. Until now, he'd visited the supermarket just before closing, made a few small purchases, and gone to the back with Caroline, but the slim brunette had taken a vacation two weeks ago.

"Kate, honey..." John finally spoke. "Isn't it too late to read books?" He staggered to the desk. Darker and darker thoughts were creeping into his mind. "Daddy sent me here... I was taking care of you..."

The girl looked at John's shaking hands and rose from her chair, alarmed. She opened her mouth to say something, but John suddenly pulled her to him and covered her mouth. Sara, who had sat down on the bed when John approached her sister, now jumped up, but she didn't scream; She gasped in terror, and before she could utter a sound, John raised his voice,

"If you scream, your sister will get hurt. If you struggle," he leaned close to Kate's ear, "I'll hurt Sarah, whom you love, right?"

Kate trembled. Her large, terrified eyes stared at Sarah, paralyzed with fear. Each inhale was accompanied by a loud whoosh. Her breathing was rapid and ragged.

"I'm not a bad person," John whispered. "I'm just a drunken bastard who's tired of fucking the same woman from the supermarket across the street. And your old man is another drunken bastard for whom the first one did a lot. Daddy let me take two such pretty girls..."

He slipped his hand under Kata's pajamas, the other still covering her mouth. His hand moved from the girl's stomach to her small, pointed breasts. Kate tried to bend down, to pull away; she began pounding her clenched fists on the man's thighs. John withdrew his hand and almost shouted,

"Mommy always told you to obey your father, didn't she?! He doesn't mind." He smiled benevolently again and fell silent. He was covered in sweat. "Don't you believe me?" he asked after a moment, then turned to Sarah,

"Open the window. "

The girl stood still.

"Go to the window and open it!" John hissed through gritted teeth. Sarah's terrified, doe-like eyes flicked from John's hardened face to the delicate curtain. The girl opened her mouth and walked numbly across the room.

"Daddy owes me a debt of gratitude, doesn't he?" John asked rhetorically. "And since he's a kindhearted man, he let me choose the form of payment."

With a decisive movement, he ripped the curtains apart.

"Open..." he whispered.

Sara grabbed the doorknob. Only now did tears fill her eyes. She hesitantly opened the window and burst into tears. John quickly pulled her hand away; the girl's back slammed violently against John's stomach. He covered her mouth with his hand and pressed her head against his chest, just as he had done with Kate earlier. Now he was pressing the two terrified girls' heads against his chest. He kissed Sara gently on the cheek and approached the open window.

"Both?" he shouted.

The girls' tears flooded his hands.

Marcus's heartfelt voice came from the porch:

"Yes, both. Thanks, man!"